The Ithaca Cornbears weren’t just a team, they were a lifestyle — a bizarre cult of oversized brown bears who loved corn so much they refused to play unless someone scattered kernels along the baseline. Legend says the first Cornbear showed up at practice holding a butter-soaked cob in one paw and a keg in the other, and the coach just went with it. Now the mascot roams the stands gnawing corn mid-game, spilling husks everywhere while the band blares off-key fight songs about maize like it’s a religion. Tailgates smell less like burgers and more like a county fair exploded — grilled corn, creamed corn shots, and whatever ungodly concoction the frat bros dream up (corn vodka is a war crime).
Opponents don’t even fear the Cornbears’ defense — they fear the postgame tradition. Lose to Ithaca and you get “corned”: a dozen sweaty guys in fur suits dump bags of frozen corn into your locker room showers while chanting “SHUCK! SHUCK! SHUCK!” The administration has tried to shut it down three times, but every time they do, an anonymous delivery of 400 ears of corn shows up on the dean’s lawn. The Cornbears don’t win every game, but they win every afterparty — and honestly, in Ithaca, that’s what matters.
